


A Trainwreck on Fire

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Dysfunctional Relationships, Introspection, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 22:09:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7863004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your relationship is like a train wreck, but the train keeps on chugging even though it is most definitely on fire; your friends watch from the sidelines in horrified awe but even they can’t deny that it’s working.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Trainwreck on Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cthchewy (pyrrhic_victoly)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhic_victoly/gifts).



> im so sorry this gave me the hardest fucking time bc all i ever write is angst but /i tried/

Your relationship could easily be compared to a train wreck. 

 

The two of you should not work together; your various neuroses and unmanageable paranoia combined should guarantee the death of at least one, probably both of you, likely by the other’s hand, but you get along like a house on fire and the hot burn of what he calls “romance” and what you call “codependent friendship” makes sure that neither of you actually go through with murder, even if you do think about it. 

 

_Often_. 

 

You’re possessive, and paranoid, and obsessed with keeping him safe, but if anything it just seems to flatter him; he’s twitchy, and needy, and demands the kind of attention you usually only spare to your projects but it works out pretty well because, if you’re to be honest with yourself, he sort of _is_ a project. You need to fix things but he needs to be fixed, and he needs to have something to hold onto and if there’s anything you are, it’s pretty damn immutable. You don’t like change and he doesn’t like change and the both of you are happily stagnant together. 

 

Your relationship is like a train wreck, but the train keeps on chugging even though it is most definitely on fire; your friends watch from the sidelines in horrified awe but even they can’t deny that it’s  _ working _ . 

 

He presses up against your back and his arms slide around your shoulders, cool body sapping the heat from your human-warm frame; you lean back against him and the soft cloth of his cape rubs over your cheek as he drapes it around the both of you like a protective blanket. This is rare; the both of you are starved for touch, for affection, but you’re so easily stifled after a lifetime with nothing but robots and distant friends, and he is used to having the entire ocean at his beck and call, a territory thrice the size of all you could see from the roof of your house in every direction. Often, your interactions are limited, the two of you coming together in a clash of limbs and desperation, something that could be called ‘cuddling’ only under the loosest definition of the word, then you separate- sometimes for hours, sometimes for days. You’re okay with that; it gives you time to decompress. 

 

Sometimes though… on rare occasions, things are softer.  _ He’s  _ softer, his hands sliding up your chest to pull you to him, his breathing calm against your throat, his chin resting on your shoulder as he presses his palm against your cheek in a gentle pap; you don’t think it affects you the same way it does him but it’s nice anyways, and you relax into the embrace, shifting to press your nose to his hair. 

 

“You’re being unusually affectionate,” but you really can’t say anything against it because you’re the one leaning into the touch, soaking it up like a sponge as he kneads at your stomach, because as easily as you’re stifled by his embrace you crave it in a weird, kind of sick way you can’t quite explain. 

 

“Ain’t like you’re complainin’,” he drawls, a fin flapping against the side of your face; you lick it and he squawks, shoving at you, but when you don’t let go the both of you just topple over and lay on the floor in a heap of tangled limbs, his cape draped over the mess. You’d move, but that requires a little too much effort and this may be your third day in a row without sleep or sustenance besides what little you’ve dug out of your fridge that you can hold in one hand as you work; he always seems to appear just as you’re on the verge of physically damaging yourself with overwork, and you’d think him psychic if he hadn’t treated you to a vaguely xenophobic rant about lowbloods and highbloods and the distribution of psychic powers between the two. You still think he’s psychic, but now you’ve learned to just not say it out loud. 

 

“Not complaining, no,” and it’s a sigh, a soft susurrus of contentment; you tilt your head back and his hand fits right against the curve of your throat, fingertips tracing over the thin, almost invisible scar that wraps around your neck, a perfect circle. Your bodies meld together as well as your minds do, your respective neuroses complimentary, fitting like puzzle pieces to different puzzles that still somehow make a coherent whole. When you turn your head to press your cheek against his, he purrs, hard corded muscle relaxing, shoulders eased of their usual tight tension; your own is already faded because as little as you care to trust another creature [one you didn’t make with your own two hands] with your safety and your life, you know that his possessiveness and general hatred for everything that breathes would keep anything dangerous from coming within a mile of you.

 

Mutual discussion dissolves to one-sided noise; he likes to talk and he doesn’t care if you truly listen or not, as long as you stay with him. You reach a hand around to comb through his hair, thumb rubbing at the soft swell of skin that surrounds the jut of his horn; his rambling about ‘something-something-filthy-pissblood’ stutters, then softens, till he’s just mumbling against your skin, his breath cool against the side of your face and smelling vaguely like the ocean. It’s a comforting scent, one that reminds you of simpler times, when it was just you and the wide expanse of the sea and whatever your mind could dream up; no expectations, no confusing social cues, no million and one ways to mess up and ruin what little you’ve managed to cultivate.

 

Sometimes you miss being so alone, but never here, wrapped up in arms, his cape, as he mumbles into your ear about pollution and extremist environmental terrorism. The soft, melodic burble of his voice is soothing in a way that the mechanical hum of your robots just isn’t, calming in a way you can only recall ever getting from him; this is the kind of feeling- that soul-deep ease of stress and tension- that makes you wonder if humans can get all the benefits from a pale-based relationship after all. It’s the kind of thing that makes you wonder about chemical reactions in the brain, the science behind it all, the varying levels of dopamine and oxytocin, and you tense up in preparation to divine the mysteries behind the pap except then he paps you and you’re fading again, floating in comfort and ease-of-mind. 

 

“Shelve your dumb experiments till tomorrow,” he grumbles, sharp claws so close to your throat, so close to vital veins and yet you’re still so  _ calm _ , “I ain’t  hangin’ off you like a skinned hide while you’re barrelin’ about testin’ this an’ that an’ the other. I got more dignity than that.”

Obligingly, you fall limp, shifting to wrap your arms around his waist and he feels like gossamer in your hands, like spider silk and soft things, but he’s got strength in his limbs that could crush you flat and yet you feel no sense of danger. His claws trace over your scar, up your cheeks and into your hair, rubbing at your scalp and all you can do is rest your face in the crook of his throat and sigh, exhaustion weighing down on you and the cool comfort of his body only making it worse. 

 

“Sleep, you idiot,” he burbles, scratching right around where your hornbeds would be, if you had any- and you wonder if that’s an instinctual reaction, if he’s even aware he’s doing it- “Tell your brain to stop workin’ an sleep. I won’t leave tomorrow till you wake up.”

 

It’s almost instantaneous, even though you know it’s a longer process than it seems; you let out a noise of agreement and between one blink and the next… 

 

 

Eridan complains of your snoring the next morning; you just have Hal play back a recording of his own attempts at chainsaw imitation.


End file.
